Sometimes
by Rainwind
Summary: Sometimes at night when she can’t sleep, Ginny stares into the perpetual darkness and remembers the last thing Tom said to her…darkfic, Ginny centric, mildly GinnyTom.


Sometimes

Summary: Sometimes at night when she can't sleep, Ginny stares into the perpetual darkness and remembers the last thing Tom said to her…darkfic, Ginny centric, mildly Ginny/Tom.

Disclaimer: not mine, though the ideas, her thoughts and a few of the things she recalls are.

Notes: very depressing, darkish and written when I was overly depressed and slightly suicidal-feeling. That's only a warning if you want it to be.

Sometimes

…

Sometimes, at night when she can't sleep and she lies in bed, silent, staring at the ceiling in the perpetual darkness, Ginny remembers the last thing Tom said to her, the last thing he whispered before her vision went black. She hasn't told anyone, no one knows what happened to her while she was in the chamber with him.

"_I want to hear you scream."_

She tries to remember, she remembers, hears the words hissed through his beautiful lips that whispered twisted words and bloody lies into her ears, so beguiling. She remembers how she screamed before, screamed high and shrill, music to his ears. How he laughed and twirled her around like the child she was in his arms the first time she screamed for him.

She remembers how eventually, very slowly, it increased so that he just had to say the word and she would scream for him, cry for him, cut herself open and bleed for him.

She remembers how the light touches became more dangerous, how he just had to drift a feather-light, long, white finger over her skin and she would feel the icy burning sensation, and see the pale bright red mark blossom there, how he just had to ghost a finger over the still flesh and she would feel the pain that came every time she wouldn't listen to him.

She remembers the pain that came the one night she tried to tell her brothers and Potter, that single, horrible word he whispered, always whispered, that put knives through her. She remembers how he had smiled when she screamed and found she couldn't stop. She screamed and screamed, but the pain wouldn't go away, and she remembers how he held her after, cradling her like a young girl does to a doll and telling her softly that he would never do it again if she never tried to tell again.

"_Just listen to me, and you will never hurt again."_

She remembers the fear.

She remembers, and thinks and tries to cry the tears that haven't run since that year. She pulls the sharp blade out from it's hiding place, the secret drawer in the headboard of her bed, and pushes it into her arms and stomach and legs, pulling hard and watching the only tears she has left fall in a wave of the beautiful crimson that keeps her alive.

It was he who eased her into this vicious cycle of false tears she is trapped in, he who first drew the blade across her pale, pale flesh and made her taste her own blood. It was he that made her fall in love with the flashing silver of the blade, made her unable to live without it, made her appreciate the dangerous beauty of it. She has had it since then, used it since then. She wonders how they manage to completely miss the scars when they stand out so much against her skin, how they just look right past them and her and walk and talk like everything is normal

She wonders why they haven't noticed yet.

She remembers every time she shed normal tears before the chamber and Tom, remembers her lost innocence, remembers the exhilaration she felt when she was killing the roosters, remembers how naïve she was, remembers how easy it was to just pop up the façade, wonders at how ignorant they are to how she fades further into the background, how she backs out of the light and into the shadows so instinctively, one of the many things left over for her after her first year.

She remembers how he exclaimed over her beautiful, clear, pale white skin, and wonders why, if he loved it so much, he took so much pleasure in destroying it with the scars.

_Why did you do it, Tom?_

She wonders why it's so easy for her to lie to everyone, and why they believe her. She wonders if anyone will ever notice. She wonders if anyone sees through it, if anyone looks at her and sees the helpless, lost little girl she is inside. She wonders if anyone sees past the brave-girl, icy-cold mask that never falls, never breaks, until she's alone.

_Tom would. Tom would see through it._

She thinks about how no one sees her, how they just look past her. She knows to most people she's Ron Weasley's quiet little sister, the one who's top of her class but doesn't seem to have any friends. The one who doesn't seem to care. She wonders if they really think she doesn't hear them whispering about her, wonders if she'll ever get the strength to let go, wonders if she'll ever live up to her Gryffindor courage, wonders if she should have been sorted into Slytherin like Tom said, like the hat said before she made it say Gryffindor, wonders if they really think she can't hear them think about her to themselves.

She hears her brother and Potter and Granger talk about her, sounding worried and then just dismissing it as nothing, when they all know it is something. She knows what they all think about her, she knows she is the one troubled thought in their perfect world. She knows that their world is so balanced, with the depressed hero whose family died, the hero that always seems to win, the self-pitying, headstrong boy who has a poor but caring family, the girl who is the brains out of them, their various friends, then the major enemy, Voldemort, who taunted her about Tom, the petty enemy, Draco Malfoy, who gets in the way with his cronies.

They are such opposites, good in Gryffindor, bad in Slytherin, good old guy, bad old guy, the hero, his best friends, so loyal, his best friends' families, so supportive, everyone, always there, the bad side and their supporters, so misunderstood.

And then her. The one that should be on the supportive, caring family side but is somehow drawn to the shadows. Always different, the first damsel in distress. She hates it, hate being known as the girl who Potter saved. She hates the attention, hates being known at all. She hates it so much, wants to run away.

And then the feeling that she will never be clean again. The looks she gets, the awful, condescending looks, the dirty looks, and the dirty, bad memories, of feelings that shouldn't be, the pain in places it shouldn't be. She remembers coughing up blood the one time he stabbed her, remembers how innocent she was, convincing herself time and time again that he really loved her and he just had some anger to get rid of and she was the only one he had to get rid of it in.

She remembers the pain.

She remembers trying not to cry, and now wishes she had, so she had more memories of crying. She presses the knife down harder and lets her arm weep for her eyes. The eyes feel no gratitude; just sit, cold and withdrawn, in her head. She licks the blood up, cleans the knife blade off and puts it gently into the drawer, cold and still sharp, still hungering for the blood she so freely gives it.

Sometimes she sits up in bed, almost naked, and looks at the scars that litter her skin. There are more scars on her body than there are freckles in the Weasley house combined. Ginny wonders why her freckles faded and no one else's did. _Freckles are childish, Ginevra,_ Tom's voice chides her. She wonders if it was him who made them go away. She wishes she had her freckles.

She remembers how Tom told her once that wishes were useless when she told him she wished her family understood. She remembers how he told her to never wish. It made you weak, a creature of imagination. It was so hypocritical of him, though, since he was just a memory, and is still a memory even now, in her head.

She knows that wishes are useless now, knows from experience. So many times she has wished that the memories would fade, that the scars would fade, that her addiction to her own blood would fade. She wonders how he found out, what he wished for. She remembers how she saw tom smiling, next to her, with her family, all of their arms around her in a huge hug. She remembers and feels the wave of bitterness that comes now and again so often, and wishes again that she could cry.

"_Wishes are useless, Ginevra, wishes make you weak. Always remember that."_

"_I know, Tom, but that doesn't mean I can't wish, does it?"_

"_Yes, it does. Don't ever wish, Ginevra."_

She hates how she trusted him; she hates how she wants him to be here, holding her. She hates him. She hates herself. She hates the addiction, and the awful blindness of everyone. She hates herself like he hated her, hates the dirty feeling.

Sometimes, at night when she can't sleep and she lies in bed, silent, staring at the ceiling in the perpetual darkness, Ginny remembers the last thing Tom said to her, the last thing he whispered before her vision went black. She hasn't told anyone, no one knows what happened to her while she was in the chamber with him.

"_I want to hear you scream."_

'I am screaming, Tom, can't you hear?' she whispers to his memory in her head. It doesn't answer, but smirks at her. The whispering voices come again.

Every day, Ginny showers.

Every day, she scrubs and scrubs until her skin is red and raw and tender enough to be touched and start bleeding. Every night she tries to scrub the scars away, and the blood falls and washes away with the water, down the drain.

The scars remain, along with those on the inside that will never fade, the stains on her scarred heart and soul that never fade, never wash out.

She scrubs as hard as she can, every day, but the dirty feeling remains. There's some dirt that just won't wash away.


End file.
